Siri's Story: The 5th Time's the Charm
by burgundyleopard
Summary: Today is the reaping day of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, but I don't fear it. I know that my name won't be drawn out of the glass ball. I won't be sent to the arena to battle to the death. I already have. My name is Siria Ivory, but the Capital knows me as Orsa Wishart. Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games (obviously)
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: Today is the reaping day of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, but I don't fear it. I know that my name won't be drawn out of the glass ball. I won't be sent to the arena to battle to the death. I already have. My name is Siria Ivory, but the Capital knows me as Orsa Wishart.  
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**A/N: I think of "Siria" as pronounced "sih-REE-ah", with nicknames being "Siri" or "Ria"**

**A/N: I write mostly for my own enjoyment, but I am posting here in hopes of some comments and constructive criticism to improve my writing. Ideas, praise, and _constructive_ criticism are much appreciated and valued - flames will be ignored. Thank you!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games (obviously)**

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><p><span>CHAPTER 1<span>

I wake up to the sounds of the woods around me, and groan slightly as I roll out of my bed in Victor's village. Today is the reaping day of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, but I don't fear it. I know that my name won't be drawn out of the glass ball. I won't be sent to the arena to battle to the death. I already have.

Even with that "comfort", it doesn't make this day much better. I will still have to sit on that stage in the square, and watch as another young, malnourished, sickly boy and girl are pulled away from their families in District 12, and sent to the games - and their almost certain death. They usually last a couple days at the most, die a pitiful death, and then the process repeats a year later. I hate it, but I can't do anything about it.

To make things worse, Haymitch and I have to mentor the tributes, and be reminded every moment of our own experience in the games. Haymitch was in the 50th annual Hunger Games, while I was in the 69th. I don't like to call myself the winner - nobody wins the games - I'm just the only survivor.

I can still remember all of their faces. I curse my good memory. I remember all of the tributes from my own games - down to their scared faces at their death - and all of the tributes I mentored after. Sometimes I think I see them running amongst the children going to school, but have to remind myself that they are gone forever.

It's nearly dawn, so I slip on some hunting clothes, tie on my boots and head towards the woods. In a few hours, Katniss will be out to hunt, but she usually stays closer to the side of the woods near her house. I don't want to bother or find her today, so I stay on "my" side of the woods. Katniss and I are kind of friends. I knew her father before he was killed in the mines. He and I use to hunt together, and I almost became like a second daughter to him, although I never spent much time with the rest of the Everdeen family. He died the year I was in the games, but I never forgot what he said to me one day.

He and I were walking in the woods when he said, "Siria," I hadn't heard my real name in a long time, but I'll explain my history another time. "you and I both know that the mines are dangerous." I paused and nodded. "If anything happens to me, please take care of my girls. I will teach Katniss how to hunt soon, but they must not starve."

When I returned from the games, I was shaken to hear that Mr. Everdeen was gone. But ever since then, I've used my winnings to buy food for them , and I leave it on their porch every few weeks. They never see me, and I don't plan to let them. They don't need me to intrude. After the games, I kept to myself even more than before. I would hunt alone in the woods, when one time I saw Katniss trying to hunt.

She was no older than 13, and hitting her prey only about 10% of the time. I eventually got the courage to introduce myself and help her hone her hunting skills, and we became pretty good friends, but I never told her that I was in the games, and she doesn't know. It's not like she'd understand anyway.

I look hardly like myself with the heavy makeup and dress that I would wear when presenting myself as "Orsa Wishart, Victor from District 12 of the 69th Hunger Games". I've gotten good at steering the conversation towards other people, and almost never talk about myself. Katniss, and later Gale, only know me as Siria, or Siri, the girl who nobody knows. She doesn't know where I live, or much about me, and I intend to keep it that way.

My name is Siria Ivory, but the Capital knows me as Orsa Wishart.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I write mostly for my own enjoyment, but I am posting here in hopes of some comments and constructive criticism to improve my writing. Ideas, praise, and _constructive_ criticism are much appreciated and valued - flames will be ignored. Thank you!**

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><p><span>CHAPTER 2<span>

After an hour of hunting, I usually would have caught at least a few squirrels, but I'm not really trying. I'm too distracted by the fact that the youngest of the Everdeen girls, Primrose, would be in the reaping this year. 'She's only in there once. One slip among thousands. It won't be her.' I remind myself.

Katniss and I make sure that Prim has her name in as few times as possible, but it still worries me. Not to mention, Katniss has her name in 20 times, all because I wasn't quick enough to make sure that they were well fed, and that she wouldn't have to sign up to tesserae. I was in the games the year Mr. Everdeen died, and was still recovering and on my victory tour when she turned 12. I sigh. I should head back.

By noon, I am bathed, fed, dressed, and I have tried to redo my makeup to look my part as a mentor. Time to get Haymitch.

I walk through the now sweltering heat to Haymitch's junkyard. I prepare myself quickly before I open the door - there's no point to knocking, he'll be passed out drunk anyway, especially since it's reaping day. I kick a trail through the garbage that carpets the floor to get to where haymitch lays asleep on the floor against a wall, knife in one hand, open liquor flask in the other.

I use to try shaking him and calling his name, but after 5 years I know that there's only one way to wake him up. That leaves me trudging over to the kitchen for a pitcher of cold water. On the way over, I open a window, and briefly backtrack to take possession of the knife and cap the flask.

A few moments later has Haymitch awake and quite wet and hollering at demons only he can see, and me perched on the far side of the table as I wait for the coast to clear enough for me to set him up for lunch. A small, muffled "thanks a lot" is mumbled as I shove him into a chair and wade into his bedroom/closet to find him a simi clean shirt.

He slowly eats and dresses in his still drunken stupor, and a few minutes before 2, I get him out the door and headed towards the square.

When we get there, I greet Effie, who greets me with her usual chatter of "Orsa! It's great to see you! Happy Hunger Games! I mean its great to see _you_, not really _him_, but you of _course_…." In her silly capital accent, while she attempts a ladylike way of keeping away from Haymitch's flailing arms and swaying figure.

I nod, smile, and eventually persuade Haymitch to take his seat on the huge stage set up in front of the justice building, and hope that he stays there. As usual, I tune out as President Snow gives his history lesson on the games via recorded video, the same one every year. I glance around the square watching the faces of the frightened children below. Two of them it would probably be their last reaping, by the simple fact that they would be dead in a few weeks.

I find Prim's terrified face in the row of 12 year olds, her eyes glued to the projector screen to my right. Katniss is with the 16 year olds closer to the back, and I see her share a look with Gale.

Haymitch is swaying a little, mumbling profanity under his breath, eyes unfocused, while Effie shoots him a withering look, which is completely ignored. I roll my eyes.

"...Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Effie Trinket's trill voice echoes through the microphone, bringing me to my senses. "Ladies first,"

I can hear the crowd hold their breath as Effie reaches into the glass ball and pulls out a single slip with two dainty, polished fingers, before hobbling over to the microphone in her bright pink stilettos. The seal on the slip broke, she squinted slightly to read the name,

"Primrose Everdeen"

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